not being clever, I said: ‘Meeting someone?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Your standing at the immigration exit.’
She shook her head again. If a beautiful girl can look ghastly, then she looked ghastly.
‘Then why be here? To see the sights? I should have thought the immigration hall in Schiphol was the most unsightly place in Amsterdam.’
‘That’ll do.’ Schroeder was brusque. ‘Your questions are without point and the young lady is clearly distressed.’ He gave me a hard look to remind me that I was responsible for her distress. ‘Interrogation is for police officers.’
‘I am a police officer.’ I handed over my passport and warrant card and as I did Maggie and Belinda emerged from the exit. They glanced in my direction, broke step and stared at me with a mixture of concern and consternation as well they might considering the way I felt and undoubtedly looked, but I just scowled at them, as a self conscious and injured man will scowl at anyone, who stares at him, so they hurriedly put their faces straight again and moved on their way. I returned my attention to Schroeder, who was now regarding me with a quite different expression on his face.
‘Major Paul Sherman, London Bureau of Interpol. This makes a considerable difference, I must say. It also explains why you behaved like a policeman and interrogate like a policeman. But I shall have to check your credentials, of course.’
‘Check whatever you like with whoever you like,’ I said, assuming that Mr Schroeder’s English grammar wouldn’t be up to picking faults in my syntax. ‘I suggest you start with Colonel Van de Graaf at the Central HQ.’
‘You know the Colonel?’
‘It’s just a name I picked out of my head. You’ll find me in the bar.’ I made to move off, then checked as the two big policemen made to follow me. I looked at Schroeder. ‘I’ve no intention of buying drinks for them.’
‘It’s all right,’ Schroeder said to the two men. ‘Major Sherman will not run away.’
‘Not as long as you have my passport and warrant card,’ I agreed. I looked at the girl. ‘I am sorry, Miss Lemay. This must have been a great shock to you and it’s all my fault. Will you come and have a drink with me? You look as if you need one.’
She dabbed her cheek some more and looked at me in a manner that demolished all thoughts of instant friendship.
‘I wouldn’t even cross the road with you,’ she said tonelessly. The way she said it indicated that she would willingly have gone half-way across a busy street with me and then abandoned me there. If I had been a blind man.
‘Welcome to Amsterdam,’ I said drearily and trudged off in the direction of the nearest bar.
I don’t normally stay at five-star hotels for the excellent reason that I can’t afford to, but when I’m abroad I have a practically unlimited expense account about which questions are seldom asked and never answered, and as those foreign trips tend to be exhausting affairs I see no reason to deny myself a few moments of peace and relaxation in the most comfortable and luxurious hotels possible.
The Hotel Rembrandt was undoubtedly one such. It was rather a magnificent if somewhat ornate edifice perched on a corner of one of the innermost ring canals of the old city: its splendidly carved balconies actually overhung the canal itself so that any careless sleepwalker could at least be reassured that he wouldn’t break his neck if he toppled over the edge of his balcony – not, that is, unless he had the misfortune to land on top of one of the glass-sided canal touring boats which passed by at very frequent intervals: a superb eye-level view of those same boats could be had from the ground-floor restaurant which claimed, with some justification, to be the best in Holland.
My yellow Mercedes cab drew up at the front door and while I was waiting for the doorman to pay the cab and get my bag my attention was caught by the sound of ‘The Skaters’ Waltz’ being played in the most excruciatingly off-key, tinny and toneless fashion I’d ever heard. The sound emanated from a very large, high, ornately painted and obviously very ancient mechanical barrelorgan parked across the road in a choice position to obstruct the maximum amount of traffic in that narrow street. Beneath the canopy of the barrelorgan, a canopy which appeared to have been assembled from the remnants of an unknown number of faded beach umbrellas, a row of puppets, beautifully made and, to my uncritical eye, exquisitely gowned in a variety of Dutch traditional costumes, jiggled up and down on the ends of rubber-covered springs: the motive power for the jiggling appeared to derive purely from the vibration inherent in the operation of this museum piece itself.
The owner, or operator, of this torture machine was a very old and very stooped man with a few straggling grey locks plastered to his head. He looked old enough to have built the organ himself when he was in his prime, but not, obviously, when he was in his prime as a musician. He held in his hand a long stick to which was attached a round tin can which he rattled continuously and was as continuously ignored by the passers-by he solicited, so I thought of my elastic expense account, crossed the street and dropped a couple of coins in his box. I can’t very well say that he flashed me an acknowledging smile but he did give me a toothless grin and, as token of gratitude, changed into high gear and started in on the unfortunate Merry Widow. I retreated in haste, followed the porter and my bag up the vestibule steps, turned on the top step and saw that the ancient was giving me a very old-fashioned look indeed: not to be outdone in courtesy I gave him the same look right back and passed inside the hotel.
The assistant manager behind the reception desk was tall, dark, thin-moustached, impeccably tail-coated and his broad smile held all the warmth and geniality of that of a hungry crocodile, the kind of smile you knew would vanish instantly the moment your back was half-turned to him but which would be immediately in position, and more genuinely than ever, no matter how quickly you turned to face him again.
‘Welcome to Amsterdam, Mr Sherman,’ he said. ‘We hope you will enjoy your stay.’
There didn’t seem any ready reply to this piece of fatuous optimism so I just kept silent and concentrated on filling in the registration card. He took it from me as if I were handing him the Cullinan diamond and beckoned to a bell-boy, who came trotting up with my case, leaning over sideways at an angle of about twenty degrees.
‘Boy! Room 616 for Mr Sherman.’
I reached across and took the case from the hand of the far from reluctant ‘boy’. He could have been – barely – the younger brother of the organ-grinder outside.
‘Thank you.’ I gave the bell-boy a coin. ‘But I think I can manage.’
‘But that case looks very heavy, Mr Sherman.’ The assistant manager’s protesting solicitude was even more sincere than his welcoming warmth. The case was, in fact, very heavy, all those guns and ammunition and metal tools for opening up a variety of things did tot up to a noticeable poundage, but I didn’t want any clever character with clever ideas and even cleverer keys opening up and inspecting the contents of my bag when I wasn’t around. Once inside an hotel suite there are quite a few places where small objects can be hidden with remote risk of discovery and the search is seldom assiduously pursued if the case is left securely locked in the first place …
I thanked the assistant manager for his concern, entered the near-by
